


we are who we are

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Dark, Demon Stiles, Demonic Possession, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:12:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This body is young and untested, pure in a way few he’s possessed have ever been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are who we are

This body is young and untested, pure in a way few he’s possessed have ever been. It thrums with energy, a low buzz under its skin that can’t be controlled. It has so much sparkling potential --- these muscles that are growing, these limbs that need to be contained. A brain that is quicker than many others harbor, with a mix of thoughts and memories and emotions that fascinate him. It was a boy who ran with wolves. Almost too good to be true. 

This doesn’t feel like just another costume, yet another mask. He likes it. He likes listening to its voice, flailing its hands wide --- it comes so naturally, this wild movement, this freedom --- exaggerated yet earnest. He loves its taste; sweet as only youth can be. 

He thinks he’ll stay. 

*

The suspicion is grating. He should have spent longer accessing its thoughts. He pauses when he shouldn’t, he’s quiet when loud is expected. He doesn’t know how it used to keep it up, this boundless, excessive _vitality_. It almost seems a shame.

He stays awake in the dead of night and replays conversations, analyzing its emotional response. They never quite match; the internal thought processes and the actions it performed. There is always a contradiction.

It can be confusing. Should he go with the instinct or with the reasoning? Instinct seemed to win every time, before. Wise observations were scattered to the winds in the name of _friendship_. 

The young wolf, Beta with delusions of Alpha, watches him closely. 

“You smell the same,” he says, hand settling on this body’s arm. “But something’s up. Are you okay, Stiles?”

Stiles is fine. Stiles will always be fine. 

“I’m just tired, you know?” he says, wincing and drawing this body’s shoulders back, inadvertently shaking the wolf’s hand off with the movement.

The wolf is filled with sorrow. “Please talk to me. I know I’ve been spending more time with Isaac, but you can trust me.”

It used to trust him, before he was wolf. It wanted to trust him after. But, again, that contradiction, and in such a surprising turn of events --- instinct says not to talk, reasoning tells the opposite story.

*

As the weeks wear on adequate responses come quicker. Its father asks how he’s doing and he recalls that it’s never truly been honest. He blusters through an explanation of school as it once did, adding anecdotes carefully measured and timed to cause amusement and not concern. 

If he’s forced to attend High School, then he’ll use what he’s learning; how annoying teenage humans can be when imprisoned in the name of education.

He’s thought of giving it all away, of course he has, of taking this body wherever he so wishes, doing whatever he wants. It wouldn’t be hard to slip into the night, and while its father would look for him, he has skills in not being found. There is always a thought that stops him. An overwhelming partiality for staying still, going through the motions. 

The wolf stops gazing at him, teachers stop interrogating, and everything is as it should be. 

*

Running with wolves is a jeopardy he attempts to avoid, but he’s never given the courtesy. 

The wolves ignore the fact that this flesh is fragile. They anticipate sharp words but continued loyalty. There is always another fight, another need for his knowledge --- _its_ knowledge --- another quest and duty and expectation. And some days, days like this, he thrives on that. The bones may be weary, the blood thin, but the will is strong. He’s never had this, in past lives. He’s always had to make his own adventure. Connections that were forged were cast aside. 

So he continues to run, to jump, hop and skip. To say the words that others want to hear. They slide off his tongue with little effort. This is no longer a second skin. 

The only concern is that the Alpha wolf watches him as the young wolf used to, his gaze focused and intent. This body twitches at his gaze, heat pooling in its depths. 

 

*

He’s cornered in the woods. It’s his fault. He should have thought more about territory and protection, but he was thinking about something the girl wolf had remarked upon in regards to the waning moon. It had reminded him of something he knew once and he was sifting through past lives and understandings as he rambled over fallen logs. 

There’s no obvious escape. He doesn’t know if he’d take it if there were. Instinct says to stand tall. Reasoning says to run.

“You’re not Stiles,” the Alpha wolf says, conversationally, but with an edge. 

“No,” he admits. There’s no need to keep up the charade. “Not really.”

“What are you?”

“Your kind call me demonic, but I find that crude and, frankly, reductive. I’m no more malicious than you. I’m older than your first ancestors, but younger than your moon. Part of the old world.”

“Get out of him,” the Alpha wolf growls. 

This body shudders, fingers curling into fists. Always so reactive. “I can’t, very easily, not how you’re imagining.”

There’s a fierce snarl, a scuffle over the dead leaves on the forest floor. The expression before him is anguish. 

“It cared about you, you know.” The Alpha wolf needs consoling, he understands. “It kept you in its thoughts longer than it thought it should. There was guilt, there was shame. It wanted you to feel the same way. I find that very touching, don’t you?”

The Alpha wolf doesn’t respond the way he thinks he would. He roars and throws him against a tree, fangs elongated and eyes flashing red. He wants to play. But this body, _his body_ isn’t strong like his last vessel was and all he can do is gasp around the palm crushing his windpipe.

“Sourwolf, while this is an epic nostalgia-trip, can you not?” he chokes out. 

The Alpha wolf drops him, hands trembling. His eyes are feral, his jaw working. The power leeches out of him, quick like a flickering light. “Stiles? You’re still in there?” 

Oh. That’s interesting. Unexpected. If only it had known before. He sucks in a deep breath, narrows his eyes. His hand begins to twirl through the air, once, twice; a barely conscious gesture.

“No, it’s dead,” he says, voice rasped from the attack. “Lost to the void. Couldn’t be helped. Really sorry about that.”

“Dead,” the Alpha wolf repeats. He bares his fangs once more, stalks forward. He can hear his heart thumping traitorously fast, drumming within his ears, knows the Alpha wolf will be able to also. “Then how did you know to call me sourwolf?”

“Memories,” he explains, surprised the Alpha wolf doesn’t know. “Former thoughts. They linger in the synapses of the brain. It died as soon as I entered. I had to decide whether to leave and let it go for good or stay and let the memories live on. You can see what I chose and it wasn’t a hardship. You can thank me now.”

“ _Thank_ you,” the Alpha wolf says, flat. His eyes are hollow, black like the void. He slumps as if he’s defeated. “Thank you for killing my --- for killing Stiles?”

His body shrugs. “It was necessary.”

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you as you speak,” the Alpha wolf says, claws extended and placed precariously against his throat. 

Each swallow brings the very tip of every claw digging painfully into his skin. He imagines he can smell the blood spilling from his veins.

“I’d be captivated seeing you try. It’s a complicated ritual. If you’re referring to killing my newly acquired body, you can if you wish. I’d be disappointed, but it wouldn’t be the end of me.” He wants to make this clear, so he speaks his next words slowly. He uses its name, although it feels thick against his tongue. “It would be the end of Stiles.”

“You already said Stiles is dead.”

“The soul, yes. But the personality? The collection of past experiences and lessons learned, the beliefs and preferences? They remain.”

There is a look of disgust, another low growl, and then he’s left staring into blank air. 

*

The Alpha wolf doesn’t tell the young one. He puzzles over that for a week, more. It nags at him constantly and he finds his fingers tapping on various different surfaces, his mouth speaking words and phrases sharper than he means to. 

“Dude, you are tense,” Scott says, flicking a ball of paper at his head. He doesn’t retaliate. He feels affection.

“You’d be tense too if you had a Chemistry test and your teacher hated your guts. Oh, wait…” he answers. 

Half of it’s true. 

“Is this Derek related?” Scott asks, tone falsely light. His head snaps up and Scott raises an eyebrow. “Come on, I’ve seen the way you look at each other.”

“He isn’t looking at me.” 

_He’s looking for Stiles._

*

One of his own wreaks havoc among the town next, killing indiscriminately. He’s ashamed to call them brothers when they act no more refined than savage beasts. But this demon is stronger than he’s ever been, able to conjure a corporeal form that has rows of teeth and a lashing tail. He can’t stop it alone.

Its first mistake was choosing his town. The second was in endangering his friends. The third was in not counting on werewolves. He helps cage the demon, writes down the ritual for banishment and pretends he got it from a book in the restricted section of the library. He can’t say the words, but Lydia can and he holds her hand, lending some of his power. 

It isn’t enough, until Derek steps in. A dark shadow against a backdrop of fire, muscles rippling as he tears the demon limb from limb. It would be menacing if he didn’t have regret in his eyes. He doesn’t value the kill.

He can’t explain the emotions he contends with upon the victory. He’s sure he’s never experienced them before. He bounces around his room, music loud in his headphones.

Derek climbs through his window late in the night, red Alpha wolf eyes glowing.

“Why did you help?” he asks, head tilted to the side as if that will give him the answers he craves.

“Because I can,” he responds. “Because I should. Why haven’t you told anyone else about my little secret?”

Derek crosses his arms across his chest. “You talk like him, you move like him, you could be him.”

“It’s sentimental.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to murder and maim, but you’re yet to strike.”

“It’s not my style. Too much effort.” He scratches at the back of his head. “It --- Stiles held you in high regard. More than he ever let you know.”

“Don’t. Don’t use the past tense.”

“Oh, I hold you in high regard too. More than I’ll ever let you know.”

They share a look. It feels interminable.

*

He wonders what makes him not Stiles, after that. What sets them apart. He contemplates the necessity for a soul. 

Because if he has Stiles’ memories, and he has his love of curly fries, and he has his ADHD --- if he has his sense of duty and driving need to protect his dad --- if he cares for Derek more than he should, and struggles with the same math concepts, and overreacts and enthuses and _wants_ , how is there a distinction?

What makes him different? Most days he doesn’t access his hundreds of years of stored knowledge. Things he once thought he knew have slipped away. He doesn’t have any motivations beyond survival and living as a teenager in a small town in Northern California. 

Who is he, if not Stiles? Is he the one who’s lost forever?

*

His body is young and untested, pure in a way few he’s possessed have ever been. It feels good under Derek’s hands, perfect against his lips. His long legs hitch, his fingers flutter. His heart raps out a steady rhythm that’s faster than he thinks it should be. This feels like the culmination of everything he’s ever desired; good, so _good_. He tells Derek over and over, tongue working overtime.

And when the claws go in, when he looks into Derek’s eyes and sees torment and sorrow and distress, he wants to ask why, but he can’t. His blood drips to the floor and his throat gurgles uselessly and Stiles’ thoughts and memories start to leave him one by one. He stares up at Derek, at his drawn features and his empty eyes and thinks, _congratulations, sourwolf. You successfully fail again._

And he thinks he’ll go.


End file.
